The Child Goddess Read online

  Anna took a deep breath, and when she spoke again, her voice was a bit stronger. “I’m a teacher,” she said. “I’ve devoted my life to children.”

  “I know.”

  Anna Edwards met Isabel’s eyes. Her eyes were still reddened from her tears, and the lids were a little swollen, but there was courage in her gaze, and perhaps, Isabel thought, the beginnings of acceptance.

  Anna said, “There is something you can do for me, Mother Burke. You can let me know if Simon’s serum works for Oa. You can let me know if it was worth it.”

  *

  IN THE SECOND week of Easter, the priests and novices and lay ministers of the Priestly Order of Mary Magdalene celebrated a special liturgy in honor of Oa of Virimund.

  The Tuscan sun shone its benevolent light on the old stone chapel, warming the heads of those lining up for the procession. First the servers, then the ministers and novices, and lastly the priests, twenty-seven of them, their bare scalps shining, filed into the chapel. They wore albs of white, draped with chasubles of green. A children’s choir from the village of San Felice sang, and several priests representing other orders were present. Marian Alexander presided, her face calm, but her eyes glowing with pride at the success of the Virimund mission. At Isabel’s success.

  Oa was already in the chapel, kneeling in readiness in a pew before the altar. In her hand she held a tiny stone, a bit she had carried away from the kburi, to have with her something of the Child Goddess. Isabel knelt beside her. She had designed the ceremony, with the help of Mother Alexander, and all that remained for her to do was shepherd Oa through her part.

  The great moment, for Oa, had come during the Sacred Triduum, the three holy days before Easter. She had risen from her cot in Isabel’s room, and gone down the corridor to the bathroom to wash. Isabel was already up, dressed, almost ready to go to the chapel for morning Mass. Oa had run back down the corridor, her sleepshift flying, a smeared towel in her hands.

  “Isabel!” she cried, before she was even in the door.

  Isabel, startled, put down her cross and turned. “Oa?”

  Oa burst into the room, forgetting to close the door, forgetting the rule of quiet, forgetting everything as she held the towel out for Isabel to see. “Isabel! Look!”

  “Oa, what—oh, sweetheart! Is this yours?”

  “Yes, yes! This is Oa’s! The blood of a woman—of a person!”

  They had embraced, Isabel laughing, Oa laughing and crying at the same time, freeing herself to pirouette around the room, coming back to hug Isabel. The girl had grown at least three inches, and was almost as tall as Isabel. She was thin, of course, as all the anchens were thin, but her breasts had begun to bud, her childish hips to round. She was growing up. And now, for Oa, the proof. Her menses had begun.

  Isabel had explained to Marian how important this was to Oa, and today they would honor the great event in a public liturgy. The press were invited, so that people could understand what had happened, what remained to be done for the other anchens. The children in the choir stared curiously at Oa, distracted from their music by this dark-skinned, slender girl over whom such a fuss was being made. Gretchen Boreson had sent a representative, the envoy Cole Markham, bearing gifts for Oa’s special day, and bringing an archivist to record everything. Isabel smiled at that. Gretchen Boreson, even ill as she was, would turn all of it into a public relations triumph.

  The ceremony was solemn and simple. Candles were lit, scriptures read, prayers offered. At last, Isabel escorted Oa to the altar and Marian Alexander blessed her, saying “Oa of Virimund, you are one of the great mysteries, and the great miracles, which make us grateful to God for the wonders of being human.”

  Isabel saw Oa’s eyes flicker, searching for her. She stepped a little closer, and put a hand on Oa’s shoulder.

  “We are, all of us, grateful to have you as part of our community, and we rejoice with you. We also honor the Child Goddess, your patroness, who sustained and strengthened you while you waited for this day.”

  Oa held out the little stone, the bit of volcanic rock carried all the way from the planet Virimund. Marian took it in her hand, and sprinkled holy water on it, and then gave it back. Isabel had had a necklace made, with a reliquary, and she helped Oa to fit the stone into its little locking compartment. Oa hugged her, and murmured her thanks to Marian.

  Marian finished by saying gravely, “Oa of Virimund, on this day, here in the Magdalene Chapel, all of those present recognize and honor the existence of your immortal soul. May God bless and keep you always.”

  And then every Magdalene came forward, one at a time, to embrace Oa, to bless her with their hands on her curly head, their cheeks pressed briefly to hers. Through it all Oa’s smile blazed white, and her eyes shone with joy.

  Isabel closed her eyes, sending her thanks to Simon. And to God for providing him.

  *

  IT ALL SEEMED like a dream to Oa. Or was it the long, long years on Virimund that had been a dream? But each of these women who came forward, who brushed her cheeks with theirs, who blessed her, each of them knew the secret that now she knew, too, felt the sensations that she felt. Was she really different from the anchen she had been two weeks before? Or was it her belief that she was changed that made her feel different? It would be a long time, she thought, before she could think of herself as no longer being an anchen. Or maybe, in a way, she would always be one.

  Isabel led her out into the sunshine, part of the procession, while the children sang their anthems and the birds of Tuscany answered with their own twittering melodies. In the courtyard of the Mother House, a great feast had been set out, fruits and breads and olives and nuts and lovely elaborate cakes. Oa stood at the head of one of the tables, taking the congratulations of people who were new to her, who shook her hand and chatted with her.

  Marian Alexander brought a man to meet her, a gray-haired man in black, wearing a white collar like Isabel’s. “Oa,” Marian said, “I’d like you to meet Father Raymond. He’s a physician, and he has volunteered to go to Virimund, to work with the anchens.”

  Oa stared at him. “You will go to Virimund?”

  He smiled back at her, a pleasant smile in a gentle, wrinkled face. “I’d like to. Do you think your companions would welcome me?”

  Oa glanced at Isabel, who stood close at her elbow. It was very strange, almost overwhelming, to think of this stranger going to the island, and not Oa herself, not Isabel. But she knew Isabel had a new assignment, and she herself . . . well, she had decisions to make.

  “Oa thinks . . .” she began, and then stopped in confusion.

  “Oa?” Isabel said gently. “I think you could use the pronoun now.”

  Oa took a deep, trembling breath. It was true. She was a person now. She had a soul. It had been proclaimed by Mother Alexander, in the chapel. She knew what Isabel meant.

  “Yes,” she said, nodding to Father Raymond. “I think the anchens will welcome you.” She glanced again at Isabel. “I will go, too, Isabel,” she said. “The anchens will need me.”

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  There has been much controversy regarding the Biblical and historical figure of Mary Magdalene, with little agreement even on the meaning of her name. Her identity is clouded by a confusion of translations, traditions, rejected gospels, and myths. There are several excellent websites devoted to research and study regarding Mary of Magdala, and also a number of books that interested readers may wish to investigate. Please visit the author’s website at www.louisemarley.com for a list of resources devoted to this fascinating and mysterious woman, who is variously reported to be a prostitute, a priestess of an ancient cult, a mystical figure in eastern religions, or the very first apostle and an active, preaching disciple of Jesus Christ—a female disciple.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Louise Marley is the author of more than a dozen novels of fantasy and science fiction, in addition to several historical novels written under the name Cate Campbell. She has twice won the En
deavour Award, and her books have been nominated for the Nebula, Campbell, and Tiptree Awards. She lives in the Pacific Northwest, where she spent her first career in classical music. Please visit www.louisemarley.com for more information.